


boogeyman

by brittlelimbs



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drug Use, Frottage, M/M, Shotgunning, Underage Sex, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 11:26:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10411113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brittlelimbs/pseuds/brittlelimbs
Summary: credence is a sweet, nerdy high schooler. graves is his dealer, and gets him high for the first time. smut ensues.





	

**Author's Note:**

> written quick and dirty for a shotgunning prompt on my blog.

they’re in a state bordering another state where this stuff is legal. it’s night, and mr. graves pulls them into this little park with a big, even pull on the wheel of his souped up el camino, quiet enough that credence can hear the keys swinging against the steering column,  _tlink tlink._ the engine purrs, and the headlights stab yellow into the dark pocket of the lot, which is bent back against the road like a crooked elbow: bushes. trees. a low curb, crusted with papery detritus of picnics past. mr. graves pulls them into one of the spots, shifts the beast into park, flips off the ignition and kills the lights, letting the engine tick in darkness.

 _it would do you good_ , he had said. credence had thought it was a joke, at first. credence thinks smoking is immoral. but, as with most things in orbit of his–  _dealer?_  he thinks, vaguely alarmed– credence is also easily seduced.

plus, mr. graves knew how to mellow the hit. or so he said. just for credence, he’d do it.  

they wait until the sounds of outside have risen up around them. a dog starts barking somewhere in the night. this seems to satisfy graves; without preamble, he pulls a baggie from the pocket of his jeans, then reaches over credence’s narrow lap to pop the glove compartment. his bare forearm is thick and strong and nearly silver in the light of the moon streaming in and filling the car. credence couldn’t fit his fingers around that wrist, he thinks. a lighter is produced from beneath a stack of– something, and then placed on the dash.

the sound of the baggie rustling and then graves holds up a joint, slim and brown, compact. credence is already hit by the smell, which echoes that of the rest of the car, but stronger. the leather carries the reek. so does graves. “you seen one of these before, kid?” he asks when he sees credence staring, and then: “sorry– don’t answer that.” he loads the joint into the corner of his mouth and lights it.

“see, you’ve got to get it going, first. real slow,” he explains, almost like he’s talking to himself, low. tender, even. the blunt bobs cartoonishly on his lip. he sways the blue flame beneath the end of it in an odd caress that makes credence tingle all over and tuck his hands between his thighs and the bucket seat, so as not to do something foolish. graves suckles a little, causing some some smoke to uncurl itself from the tip. he shuts the lighter with a  _shink_ , and credence watches as the end starts to glow a cheery red in the bluedark clutching their bodies. he proffers the joint with no smile.

“there. cherry.”

credence wants mr. graves to fuck him, so badly.

or, something in that general direction. fucking just seems paramount, somehow, like that should be what he’s angling for, if he’s gonna want something at all with someone this hot. the dirtiest endgame he can imagine. in reality, he can hardly bear to look at the big, laminated instructional posters in gym class that teach you the right way to stretch your groin without feeling dizzy, and mr. graves is something of a sublime being. a friend of a friend had a connection;  _that one guy, yeah, you know, graves,_  no known first name and just a weird last one (no weirder than barebone, or credence himself, other kids are quick and mean to remind on that one) the creepy older dealer that everyone at Ilvermorny High knows– even the kid with too-short khaki pants and battered merrells and a polo that wants, so badly, though it is a want without direction.

graves draws the first hit with a lazy suck, then passes it to credence, brushing their fingers as he lets the heady smoke stream from his nose and coalesce at the upholstered ceiling. credence’s mind feels numb, the weight of grave’s eyes heavy on him. he suddenly finds himself staring at the sizzling blunt in his hand, uncomprehending, the way a goldfish might ogle a calculus problem.

“I–” he stutters, choking; nothing more unholy that RC cola has passed through his lips, never ever, and he’s embarrassed enough that he can feel the heat pricking at his ears and cheeks. a complete fraud. “I sort of h-hoped–”

there’s a hand on the back of his neck. graves, locking at his nape like heavy heat, the oily suckers of an octopus, all the jolt of some sort of electric moray eel-thing. thrill shoots through credence’s stomach. outside, the dog stops its barking, and silence flash-floods everything, though credence’s heartbeat is pounding loud enough to soak it up.

“alright. easy now. here’s how we’re gonna do this,” graves says. his hand starts to knead, as if it’s nothing, while he steals the joint from credence’s dumb fingers and takes another pull. credence is quietly destroyed in this moment. he has no tells; just thumbnails pressing white crescents into his palms, safely hidden beneath his legs.

when graves speaks, it’s from high in his throat, funny sounding from keeping the smoke inside him. “when i breathe out, you breathe in. got that?” he says, and, yeah, credence thinks he has got it, considering he’s been breathing all his life and doing a pretty decent job of it, pretty much straighforwards,  _okay, yeah–_

it takes him a moment to recognize what’s happening. mr. graves is kissing him. mr. graves is  _kissing him_ , or, not quite; just right up in his space, bumping his stubbly face against credence’s own, blurred out, all fumbling nose and smoke-smell. nobody’s ever been so near to his body like this, not even to beat him up. graves murmurs something and credence feels a hand on his thigh, making him gasp and drink in the smoke being offered by grave’s waiting mouth without consent. it tastes hot and gagging, like dirty plants, or dirty socks, foul, and also of grave’s spit. it prickles and burns in credence’s virgin lungs and he chokes, of course.

graves is thumping his back. “you okay?” he asks. credence nods, even though he isn’t. tears prick at the corners of his eyes as he curls around his chest, nearly pressing his forehead to the dashboard, trying to hide the ugliness of the face he knows he must be making.

“breathe through your nose. deep. there you go, that’s good.”

credence shakily obeys, even as each breath draws fire. he tries and tries to swallow the coughs, but they keep coming.

“jesus,” graves mutters, then credence feels the hand on the nape of his neck again, rubbing out the tension in his muscles. “you sure you want this?”

credence, the dorky, lonely high school drifter, wants this more than anything he has ever wanted before in his life.  _yeah,_  he mumbles. he wants this. 

“how old are you, again?” graves asks, once the coughing has subsided. it’s a taboo, something they know shouldn’t be asked or answered.

“eighteen.” he turned fifteen in february.

“sure, kid.” graves says, rubbing his face, spitting another “ _jesus_ ,” for good measure. there are scars on his knuckles, and for a moment, credence worries that he’s about to be kicked out of this sort-of stranger’s toughboy car and have to find his way home at ass-o’clock on a tuesday night, alone. ma coiled in the apartment in wait like a snake. but then the moment passes and there’s a hiss as graves fills his lungs with smoke again. like they’re going to do this, anyways.

credence tries to look older, a little less one hundred and thirty pounds soaking wet.

“okay,” graves measures. the gate spills open.

time sways. the tickle in credence’s throat eventually goes down as they build a rhythm, or a weird, syncopated sort of dance: graves leans his big body in, leather jacket creaking on leather seat, and feeds credence the hit. leans back to draw another one, while credence shivers and breathes in and does all he can not to drown. he stays absolutely still, just letting graves press the smoke into him, holding the heat in his chest like a sacrament, and it takes a few passes to figure out this new kind of choreography. when to release, when to tip his chin up just-so to accept more. after a handful of gritty mouthfuls, grave’s hand moves from his nape to his jaw, grip bigwarm and soft, experienced, showing credence exactly how this is going to work. credence melts.

ten hits. a hundred.

some say god breathed life into adam when he was just cold clay. credence doesn’t realize he’s said this out loud, until graves, somewhere way out in the smoke, gives him an odd look.

“how’s that?” he asks. he starts fiddling with something by the console. a bottle of water. half-drunk, off-brand. he offers credence a sip instead of the blunt, and credence suddenly realizes his mouth is bone dry. he takes a drink and figures, vis-a-vis the weathered filter of grave’s saliva and lungs, he’s getting a lot less of the actual weed, isn’t nearly as high as he could be; graves is toking up, despite a tolerance that’s gotta be legendary. credence can see his eyes getting red in what little light is filtering in through the smoke– and when did the car get so full? grave’s head rears gloriously in a swirling medusa-haze, murky as a boogeyman from those after school specials he sneaks sometimes, and credence realizes he’s still waiting on an answer.

“oh–” he says, “–nothing.” his voice is breathy and giggling, a private joke, not funny at all but somehow even more hilarious for it. it’s fine, credence thinks. he’s lit, he’s baked, he’s whatever, and mr. graves is so hot that this whole situation is laughable, honestly.

“you’re just–” credence can’t find words. the sound escapes his kiss-swollen mouth in jagged hiccups, making him dizzy. shit. there’s a logic to this.

he leans in and licks mr. grave’s lips.

a pause. credence feels grave’s breath on his face, unlaced, undiluted, and the shared heat of their bodies in this car full of miscellaneous crud and air that’s been through both their lungs twice.

and then, all at once, it’s literally just– making out, sloppy and wet, open-mouthed, smoke making credence feel heavy-limbed and light-headed. the two of them, bandits: one, high as a kite. the other, tugging him higher.

the pump of credence’s blood is so sluggish that it takes a minute for his dick to even get interested, but then it’s all he can think about. it feels bigger and heavier than normal, throbbing against the inseam of his worn-out jeans. graves is an animal, taking of credence and then some, hands squeezing shoulders, blunt forgotten, silent save for the slippery slide of their mouths. credence kisses with the pure clumsiness of no prior experience and with his eyes drowsily half-lidded. Blue blue blue: grave’s shoulders through his jacket, the cut of his jaw, the way his knees are spread wide in the footwell beneath the steering wheel, making the crotch of his pants tight and bowlegged; the collective sight of him is just too much. credence starts to fumble with the button on his jeans.

graves grunts. suddenly there are two pairs of hands working him, and credence is going to die. graves slips a hand between the fly of his jeans and the threadbare cotton of his briefs, and just chills there, nipping away to tend to the joint again for a minute. credence goes for it, reservations long gone; it’s easy to rut against grave’s hand, up, up, feels hot and good and natural. vaguely, far away and right up-close all at once, he feels himself getting wet like a girl. then graves is back and shotgunning more smoke like before, but this time it’s wetter, closer, swapping spit and massaging tongues. 

“ _mmph_ , credence moans into his mouth, too blissed out to speak. to breathe. if it’s the smoke clouding his head, he wouldn’t know it, the incense of it already written right into his blood. faster, he goes, damn it all, just rubbing over clothes and it’s by far the hottest thing he’s done in his fucking life, sad, but true, and he’s a goner for it already. graves, who’s town-outskirts scary and wickedly attractive and who credence has kissed to ruination. graves, who is pushing down onto his aching dick and murmuring, like the sweetest secret, “ _fuck, yeah, that’s it, baby, do it, make yourself feel good_ –” 

a car speeds past on the road. like really speeds, rip-roaring by the little park and the car sitting next to it, total asshole, all brightness and loud hemi. its headlights clip in through the back windshield of grave's car for just one second–just one half, gold-galvanized little slip. and in that moment, from his tripled up curtain of haze, credence can see the way mr. grave’s lank hair hangs from his head like a pelt, lit up in an incriminating snowbank of smoke. the way tobacco has made his mouth stained dark and crooked, his battered coat with seedy shirt beneath. the scraggled beard and eyes sunken into his skull like two terrible, tired chunks of ore. 

_yeah, graves, that one motherfucker. the creep._

credence’s come gleams on his hand. 

and then the moment has passed into darkness. the car goes on down the road, speeding, plummeting, a real inconsiderate sonuvabitch, as they say. hauling ass up the dusty draw, towards nowhere. 

 


End file.
